


It's Not You, It's Me

by Jules135



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Guilt, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Season/Series 05, at least a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:52:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jules135/pseuds/Jules135
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam reads about casualties caused by Lucifer and feels immensely guilty; Dean tries to assure him that it's not his fault. Could be set almost anywhere in season five but probably more towards the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not You, It's Me

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate all constructive criticism- I'm looking to improve! I don't own Supernatural or its fantastic characters and its settings or anything else. If I did, Supernatural episodes would probably consist of hugging, deep talks, more hugging, and happy endings. :) That's all.

_“Any news?” Sam asked into the cell phone absentmindedly. He was riding shotgun in the Impala with Dean while scrolling through the internet in an attempt to find information about where Lucifer could be hiding. He’d found plenty of suspicious deaths all over the country, but even the devil couldn’t be in a thousand places at once._

_Cas replied in his usual monotone, “He’s in Colby, Kansas.”_

_“Colby?” Sam shot a look at Dean and pointed to the phone, “How do you know?”_

_“The angels are restless. They have a constant hunger for information, and they think that knowing where he is will give them a head start. I hear them talking. They say he’s been there three days.”_

_Sam released a small snort, “Idiots. They need a whole lot more than a place and a time to be one up on Lucifer.” If they thought that was good enough, they were sure to be dead as soon as they started to attack him._

_“Yes, they do.”_

_“Alright, then,” Sam sighed at the prospect of the amount of research he was going to have to do in the next few hours, “We’ll look for deaths in Colby, see if we can figure out a pattern or something.”_

_“Stay safe, Sam. Make sure your brother does so as well.”_

_Shooting an affectionate glance at Dean, Sam said, “Yeah, sure. You too, Cas.”_

_The phone clicked._

* * *

 

Dean woke in the middle of the night and realized that his mouth was very, very dry. His lips were cracked, his mouth had the funny taste that it got when it needed water, every time he swallowed it seemed to catch in his throat. _Come on_ , he thought bitterly. He’d had water before bed; there was no reason he should be this dehydrated. Plus, he would have to go all the way to the kitchen to get water. After a few minutes of battling his desert of a mouth, he gave up. He was thirsty. He would just grab a glass of water and come back.

A glance at his watch told him that it was nearly three in the morning, so Sam ought to be asleep in the room next door. They’d crashed at Bobby’s after a full day of driving, but Bobby had been out on a hunt with Rufus. He still was, as far as Dean knew, and he wasn’t returning for another three days. By then, however, Sam and Dean would be long gone. In Colby, maybe.

Dean pushed open his door quietly, but the door gave a soft whine. Avoiding the creaky spots on Bobby’s floor, Dean continued down the hallway, tip-toeing so as not to wake his younger brother. Once he reached the kitchen, he gave a small smile at its uncharacteristic neatness- a sure sign that Sam had been there in the past twenty-four hours. He opened a cabinet, grabbed a glass from its organized row, and filled it up with cold water in the sink.

Water had never tasted quite as good to Dean was it did at that precise moment. The moment the water touched his lips, he could taste it. The coolness filled his chest as it slid down his throat. Sip by sip, gulp by gulp, his dehydration was leaving him. There were few things left in the world that Dean could wholeheartedly appreciate, but water was definitely one of them.

He was ripped from his appreciation by a distinct snuffling sound coming from the living room. After refilling his glass, he went to check it out. It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He pushed open the door to the room and blinked a few times to register what was happening.

Sam was sitting on the couch- very much not asleep- with the laptop flipped open on the coffee table in front of him. The laptop’s light was dim,  but it still faintly illuminated Sam’s hands covering his face. His shoulders trembled, his head was bent, and his breaths seemed to be shaky.

“Sammy?” Dean asked uncertainly. It was three in the morning. Sam shouldn’t have been awake.

Sam started and put his hands down, and Dean realized with a shock that his eyes were red and blotchy. “You’re not... supposed to be awake,” Sam mumbled lamely, and his voice was barely audible from across the room.

“Neither are you,” Dean cautiously walked to his little brother’s side, watching him carefully. He sat down beside him and tried to get him to meet his eyes, but Sam seemed to be avoiding his gaze. He held up his glass, “Water?”

“Yes p-please,” Sam whispered, accepting the glass of water in Dean’s extended hand and taking shaky sips. Dean observed him, saw that not only were his eyes swollen and the color of a lobster (maybe a pale lobster, but a lobster all the same) but still actively dripping tears. Each drop’s path left a mark on Sam’s face, so now when Dean looked there were traces of more paths than he could count from Sam’s eyes to his jaw. Setting the glass down and meeting Dean’s eyes for the first time, Sam added softly, “I’m o-okay.”

Dean glared at him until Sam dropped his gaze, then he told him firmly, “You’re about as okay as I am a freaking walrus, Sam. Tell me what’s happening.” Sam didn’t say a word, just pushed the laptop over to Dean, and after a moment where he blinked against the bright screen, Dean began to read it. “‘Cause of mysterious deaths still undetermined...’ Crap. Where’s this from?” Sam pointed silently to the top right-hand corner, where along with a page number, the words _Colby Daily_ were listed in bold. “Isn’t... isn’t that where Cas said Lucifer was?”

“I was just looking for a pattern,” Sam croaked, “That’s all I wanted to do. But there’s so many of them, Dean. So many people found splattered on their own walls. For such a small town, Colby is getting lots of recognition from other cities. People are raising money for the families of the murdered and there’s...” He swallowed and seemed to struggle to continue, “There’s a list of everybody in Colby who’s been killed this way.”

Dean didn’t need Sam’s guiding finger to point to the top of the screen; he had already noticed the open tab that said “List of Colby...” and gone to click on it. No sooner than he pressed the button did another page pop up with a good hundred or so names in alphabetical and short descriptions of each person. “Every single one of them died in the same way?” Dean asked.

“And all in the past three days,” Sam confirmed, raw defeat clearly etched into his voice. He put his face in his hands again and Dean scrolled through the list, wincing as he read particularly painful descriptions. _Nadiya Annette- nine years old, father also found dead, loved stuffed animals. Russell Winston- thirty eight years old, newlywed, head of local feline adoption center. Brendon Bailey- two years old, loved to play with blocks._ There was something personal about every persons description, and Dean realized that a lot of work had gone into making the list.

“He’s killing for sport,” Dean said aloud, a weight settling in the pit of his stomach. He could think of no other reason for this.

“He’s killing to prove a point,” Sam argued through his hands, “He wants to tell us that he has no mercy and will show no pity, no matter how young or old or frail or kind the person was. He knows we know where he is.” He removed his hands and choked out, “It’s my fault.”

“Sam, this isn’t-”

“I did this, Dean!” Sam stood up and gripped his hair, eyes popping so that he looked nearly deranged, “Every single one of these deaths is on me. I started the apocalypse, remember? And now there are countless children who won’t grow up, teens who made it so close to the real world only to fall short, young adults who have planned their whole lives for their future only to have it brutally ended now, older adults who won’t get to have families, parents who won’t get to watch their children grow up because I failed to save them. Every single one of them is dead now because I couldn’t think about anything but revenge and now they have to pay the price. I as good as killed them, and pretending otherwise is disrespecting them all.”

“I’m not pretending!” Dean retorted as he watched Sam slump back onto the couch, “I’m as much to blame as you are- I broke the first seal, in case you forgot. These people are no more dead by your hand than by mine.”

“When you broke the first seal, we had a chance at recovery. We could still stop Lilith and fix everything. When I let Lucifer out, that was it. There was no coming back from that. I condemned everybody with a single action. Besides...” Sam scuffed the ground with his toe, looking sheepish, “the alternative to breaking the first seal would have been staying in hell, and that would have been worse.”

“If I hadn’t broken the first seal, you wouldn’t have broken the last one,” Dean reminded irritably. Sam had no right whatsoever to blame himself for all of this.

Fresh tears had appeared at the corners of Sam’s eyes, and the slipped down his face as he spoke quietly, “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. It was mine.” He was breathing in deep gulps of air, clearly trying to steady himself as he continued to murmur, “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. It’s my fault.”

“Sam-”

“It’s all my fault.”

“ _Sam-_ ”

“They’re dead and it’s all my fault.”

“ _Sam, STOP_!” He could hear the harshness in his own voice and felt instantly guilty, but Sam’s silence made him push on, “Sam, maybe you screwed up. I screwed up too. But it’s nothing we can’t fix. We owe it to all those kids and teens and young adults and older adults and parents and whoever else you were talking about to fix this and make sure nobody else dies. You think it’s showing respect to sit here and wallow and fight over who killed who? Please just listen to me, okay? You- didn’t- kill- them.”

There was a moment where nobody spoke, where Sam processed Dean’s words, where Dean looked into Sam’s eyes and saw an anguish so deep it was a space of its own. His eyes shone as though he was being ripped to pieces on the inside and was trying to contain it, like he was moments away from imploding because of the pain. The ocean of torment reflected in Sam’s eyes was so deep that Dean felt himself drowning- and if Dean was drowning in Sam’s pain, he didn’t want to think about how Sam was affected by Sam’s pain. But it didn’t matter if the anguish in Sam’s eyes was an incessant ocean or an infinite space, because it all added up to one thing, one message that impacted Dean so hard that his eyes began to water: Sam was hurting, and he was hurting bad.

All of that happened in a couple moments, and then everything happened in the snap of a finger. Sam’s face crumpled, giving Dean less than a second to realize with absolute certainty that he was going to break. The tears flowed a little bit faster, and then a heartbeat later Sam’s face was a waterfall. Dean had his arms wrapped around his baby brother- one hands rubbing his back soothingly- and Sam had his head buried into Dean’s shoulder.

“I d-don’t want to b-be a monster,” Sam whispered miserably, voice muffled as it was pressed into Dean’s shirt.

“Hey, you’re not a monster,” Dean assured him softly, “You’re my brother.” Suddenly he was filled with memories of a younger Sam and a younger Dean many times in their life, one always comforting the other. All of Sam’s nightmares had gone almost this same way- Sam curled up against Dean’s chest, finding peace and comfort in his presence. Every time either one had been wounded in a hunt and the other had panicked, certain that their sun- the center of their life- was going to be gone. Dean could recall specific times where he had held his brother to him as though it was his last time, as though any moment he would go cold. He could remember the fear, uncontrollable fear, driving stakes into his gut that wouldn’t leave. Every time either of them screwed up on a hunt and had to face John’s anger, they seeked the other’s kind words and familiar presence. For a moment, they could have been there again. They could have been kids again, clinging to each other when the world around them spun with things much too big for them. Everything felt wrong, nothing made sense, and if they let go of each other they would be flung out into the void of confusion. For a moment, life was simple. And even if it was only for a moment, a simple life felt good. “You made a mistake. Maybe it was a pretty big mistake, sure, but it doesn’t make you a monster.”

“But you said-”

Dean looked away, trying to hide his suddenly soaring emotions from his brother. He tried not to think about the things he’d said to Sam before Sam had gone and ganked Lilith, because they were some of the worst things he could remember ever saying. “I said a whole bunch of crap I didn’t mean. You’re not a monster.”

“Okay,” Sam didn’t pull back but snuggled deeper into Dean’s hold, speaking the one word quietly.

“Okay,” Dean murmured back, still rubbing comforting circles on Sam’s back with his free hand. “No more looking at stuff like this, okay? It messes you up in all sorts of ways.”

For a moment, Sam didn’t say a word, and Dean wondered if he’d even heard him, but at last a faint mumble came from his mouth, “But-”

“But what?”

“I want to memorize their names.” Sam looked up and Dean saw a flicker of the angst in his eyes that he had being so taken aback by before. “I feel like I owe it to them.”

Dean didn’t say a thing. He looked at Sam, and Sam looked at him, and they watched each other like for a long time, trying to gauge how the other was feeling. Dean’s eyes traveled over Sam’s swollen, glistening eyes, past the teardrop that still sat on his cheek, away from where the tears had gotten his too-long hair damp, and finally he opened his mouth and said frankly, “You don’t owe them a single friggin’ thing, Sam. Now tell me you didn’t kill them.”

Dropping his gaze, Sam hesitated before saying, “I didn’t-”

“No,” Dean interrupted, “Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not guilty. I don’t just want to hear it, I want you to mean it. I want you to say that you’re not guilty and I want you to really believe that you didn’t kill those people, because you really didn’t. Do it.”

Sam looked up and into Dean’s eyes, and Dean saw something settle in the shadows of his brother’s shimmering eyes. Something like sincerity, maybe. Resignation or understanding, perhaps. Possibly it was something more, something deeper and without a word to describe it, some combination of all three of the above and a thousand more emotions swirled into one giant emotion so strong that Sam was able to say with absolute genuinity, “I didn’t kill those people.”

Dean held on to Sam’s gaze, watching for some flicker that might show that Sam was lying, but he found nothing. “That’s right,” he murmured at last, dropping his gaze as Sam buried his head in Dean’s shoulder again, “That’s good.”

They stayed that way for a long time. Eventually Sam’s breathing turned deep and slow like a raging ocean becoming calm, and the rise and fall of his chest was more pronounced. The world was silent and Dean was awake, continuing to rub his sleeping brother’s back and whisper words of comfort that he couldn’t hear. He would stay here as long as he needed, making sure Sam could have a peaceful sleep, because that was what Sam deserved.

* * *

 

Bobby Singer’s hunt was cut short abruptly when he and Rufus discovered that rather than a demon possession they were dealing with a pretty wacked-out teenager. After lots of complaining (and possibly a couple drinks), Bobby insisted on going back home.

“If you drive fast, I might be able to catch Sam and Dean before they leave,” Bobby explained as he wheeled out of the motel room.

“Hold up! It’s three in the morning- we can’t go out now!” Rufus protested.

“I wouldn’t care if it was the middle of the night in the middle of winter and we were in the middle of a friggin’ blizzard! Those boys need all the help they can with this apocalypse on their shoulders, and God so help the world if I’m not the one who gives them a hand with it at least. If you’re not gonna drive me there, I’ll push this wheelchair however far I need to-”

“I’m coming, I’m coming...” Rufus grumbled, grabbing a single bag and slamming the motel door behind him.

That was how Bobby arrived at his house at six in the morning a few days earlier than expected, how he ended up sitting in his wheelchair in the living room watching the Winchester brothers sleep soundly on the sofa, Sam wrapped tightly in Dean’s protective arms. A laptop was open beside them, and when Bobby looked at the screen he saw a long list of names that had no meaning to him. Perhaps it was for a case. Perhaps it wasn’t. You never really knew with the Winchester boys.

He studied them for a long time- it was very rare that he saw how close they really were beneath all the tough, demon-ganking walls around them. Maybe when they were asleep was the only time those walls really came down, the only time he saw them at peace. If he’d ever felt like the Winchesters were losing it, that they were starting to focus too much on hunting, or if he’d ever lost hope and worried that they couldn’t stop the apocalypse, this assured him the everything was going to be okay, and Bobby wasn’t one to easily admit that.

Suddenly faced with a strong urge, Bobby wheeled over to the cabinets where he kept the blankets. He took the first one he saw and moved towards the sleeping figures on the couch. They didn’t stir at all as he threw it over them and made sure it covered them so they weren’t cold. They simply laid there, covered in a woolen red blanket, sleeping like dogs.

With a gruff but genuine smile, Bobby murmured fondly, “Idjits.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment for me with any type of opinion. I'd appreciate it a lot.


End file.
